Looks Like Rain
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock can't sleep, and needs some explanations.  Set immediately preceding the second part of "Rain".  Pre-slash almost-John/Sherlock established relationship, so close!


The sugar tin had not moved from its place in three weeks, save for one time John had washed and refilled it.

Sherlock had checked every morning, expecting it to go missing once more. After four days, he'd been surprised. On the fifth day, when it remained steadfastly in its proper place, he'd been annoyed. On the sixth day, he'd been something else. Something more than annoyed.

Disappointed.

It was ridiculous.

He did _not_ want to chase John around the flat trying to get the bloody sugar back just so he could have a proper cuppa and the doctor could snicker about his absurd little games that amounted to nothing.

Sherlock had more important things to do.

He was far too intelligent to waste time on nonsense like hide-and-seek puzzles with a small red tin and John's fairly limited imagination.

Although, truth be known, Sherlock didn't know where John would have hidden the tin if he'd taken it again, since he hadn't taken it.

Perhaps he'd have found some quite clever hiding places.

But the sugar tin had not moved.

Each day after that when Sherlock found it where it should be, he felt a tiny stab of regret that made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He tried reasoning with himself, but there was just something vaguely disappointing about John having given up, or simply quit.

Had he got what he'd wanted? Is that why he'd stopped?

Certainly, John had been acting more like John lately. Whatever had been bothering him seemed to have cleared up – perhaps he'd dealt with it on his own, which Sherlock preferred. He didn't want to get dragged into his flatmate's petty emotional entanglements. He had neither the time nor the desire.

So he'd been wrong about what he'd seen in John's expression the two times the sugar had gone missing – all right, the one time the tin had been empty and John had forgotten to buy more and the one time John had actually nicked it.

He was wrong occasionally. It did happen.

It was better when Mycroft didn't know about it, at least. Sherlock kept the flat clean of cameras and bugs, but only through persistent effort. He enjoyed mailing whatever he found back to Mycroft, at Mycroft's expense.

Lately he'd been finding fewer, although he wasn't certain why.

He wasn't used to being wrong though – not about reading people.

Why was John so damnably complex? He seemed so simple on the surface – so many people were – but there was more to him. Whenever Sherlock thought he'd figured the doctor out, John surprised him with something. It was generally fascinating, but right now it was tiresome.

At least he wasn't being distracting anymore.

So Sherlock could work properly.

Blinking, he realised he'd been staring at the page in front of him for five minutes, arguing with himself about sugar and John. Five minutes of immobility – it was a good thing John was used to that, or he'd have to explain himself.

_What? Why?_

He didn't have to explain himself to John, even when John did press him for details. He was just working. Thinking. He needed to concentrate.

He refocused his mind on the puzzle in front of him, some laughably simple cipher Lestrade had provided – or it would have been laughably simple if his brain would cooperate and not chase itself around with mundane and useless thoughts.

Sherlock bit his lip, bending over the problem, scratching something on the sheet of paper next to his right hand, then something else on the sheet of paper in front of him.

Why had John thrown up when they'd found Molly's body?

He stopped, staring blankly at the pages in front of him.

That still made no sense. Sherlock had considered this for two months now and was unable to arrive at a conclusion. John hadn't known Molly very well at all, so he couldn't have been close to her, and it wasn't as though she was the first murder victim he'd seen, not by far.

He had been acting very strange about it.

Then something clicked in Sherlock's mind.

That was why John had been acting odd.

But _why_? Why over that? Surely he wasn't that upset – no more than anyone would normally be over the untimely death of an acquaintance.

That wasn't quite true, was it? He'd thrown up when they'd fished her body out of the river.

_That was two months ago_, Sherlock told himself severely. _Quite irrelevant now._

He forced his attention to the symbols; extremely competent calligraphy, lovingly crafted, unusual apart from the use of code and the tiny blood splatter in the top left hand corner.

He picked up his magnifying glass and held it just above the parchment, running his hand carefully over the letters.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped, but recovered by throwing down his magnifying glass in disgust and looking up with narrowed eyes.

"What?" he demanded.

John gave him a puzzled look.

"You all right?" he enquired.

"I'd be fine, if you'd let me work," Sherlock replied coolly. "I need to concentrate, not be distracted by your petty questions regarding my mental state."

John gave him a look that made something in Sherlock's stomach twist, just a bit.

He looked hurt.

Hurt? Why would he be hurt? Sherlock was just stating his need to work. If he didn't make himself clear, John might try to distract him with suggestions about eating or going to do some tedious chore, as if Sherlock needed to be dragged along to do that.

"I'm just going to the shops," John sighed. "Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"A duck," Sherlock replied promptly, suddenly realising what was so strange about the calligraphic cipher.

"A duck?" John asked, arching an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. "What are you going to do, test if someone is a witch?"

Sherlock gave him a long look.

"What in the world are you talking about?" he enquired coolly.

John waved a hand.

"Never mind. I thought you were making a joke. It's a Monty Python thing. You do know Monty Python, right?"

"I am quite happy to say I've never seen any of their so-called work," Sherlock retorted and John's expression shuttered for a moment. "I need feathers, John. To make a quill."

"A quill?"

"Yes, a quill! This was written using a quill, which is why the writing is so unusual. Whoever wrote this was quite a good calligrapher, but was hampered by inadequate equipment; namely, a basic quill."

"I didn't know duck feathers were used as quills," John said.

"Generally not," Sherlock agreed. "Larger birds like swans or geese are preferable, but this was smaller. Too small. A duck's feather. That's what he was writing with, I'm certain."

John rolled his eyes.

"I'll see what I can do."

"There's a taxidermist in– "

"Not going to a taxidermist for you, Sherlock," John cut in, pulling the door open. "I'll see if I can't catch you a pigeon or something."

"I don't need a pigeon!" Sherlock snapped as the door closed behind John. He opened his mouth to yell after his flatmate, then shut it again.

He waited until he heard the front door close and a minute had passed before tossing his pen away from him in disgust and dropping his head into his hands.

Really, this was unacceptable.

A minute later, he recomposed himself as John came back to fetch his umbrella.

"Looks like rain," John commented.

"It's _London_, John," Sherlock replied, refusing to look up from the work he was not at all doing.

"Right, always rainy, absolutely," John agreed dryly and Sherlock avoided the weary look he was certain he was receiving. John left again and Sherlock forced himself to actually work for three full minutes before giving up and leaning back in his seat.

He pushed himself to his feet with an irate huff and set about stalking about the flat, moving things here and there when they caught his eye and he didn't like their locations.

This was too much, it really was.

He had work that needed to be done.

But why had John thrown up?

And why had he stopped moving the tea sugar?

Sherlock strode into the kitchen and pulled open the cupboard where the tea was kept.

There was the sugar tin; red with a green-and-yellow tartan pattern, sitting innocently on the shelf. Precisely where it should be. Sherlock glared at it, as if defying it to disappear, but it remained resolutely solid and present.

He shut the cupboard and went back to work.

John was not gone nearly long enough. He came back with shopping and Chinese food for himself, which Sherlock ignored even though the smell was enticing and made his stomach want to rumble. He ordered his body to obey him – he didn't eat while working because it slowed him down, and he certainly had more say over his eating patterns than his mindless stomach did.

"You didn't close the fridge door properly," Sherlock commented, not looking up from his work when John came in, adjusting the desk lamp to better illuminate the parchment. The day outside was gloomy – it did in fact look as though it might rain, and a heavy storm was in the forecast for the following morning.

"What?" John asked.

"You didn't close the fridge door properly," Sherlock repeated. "I can hear the motor clicking on and off more frequently. It's driving me mad."

"Why didn't you get up and close it then?" John asked. He didn't sound upset, but patient. Tolerant. Amused? Surely he wouldn't be amused? Sherlock risked glancing up.

Yes.

Amused.

His brown eyes were twinkling, as though he was expecting this or something like it. As though he could predict Sherlock's actions?

No, that was absurd.

But the amusement was there.

"I was working," Sherlock said simply and turned his attention back to it – or at least pretended to.

"Right," John said with a smile, taking his shopping into the kitchen. Sherlock listened to him put everything away and close the fridge door properly then hurriedly resumed his appearance of working when John came back and settled himself into his favourite chair, opening his take-away.

"How's it coming?"

"All the better if you don't bother me," Sherlock replied, but there was less bite in his voice than he would have preferred. He frowned at himself – this was no way to get results.

But John let him be and, after several minutes, Sherlock managed to sneak a glance. He was reading, eating absently from the take-away container.

Ignoring him.

No, not ignoring him, just not paying attention to him.

_Good_, Sherlock thought. _That's what I want._

So why did he feel slightly let down?

With an inward growl, he went back to work.

After some time, John stood and stretched.

"I'm going to read upstairs for awhile. Good night. Try and get some sleep, will you?"

Sherlock only grunted in return, listening as John binned his take-away container and went to his room, the wooden floorboards creaking here and there under his weight. He moved around his bedroom for a few minutes, footsteps soft but audible, before re-emerging a while later to go to the bathroom.

Sherlock kept working.

John went back to his room and Sherlock got up after a while, frustrated, and fished out his violin case, setting it on the table. He opened it carefully and drew out the instrument, checking the tension on the strings and cleaning the bow. Then he settled the violin against his left shoulder and began to play.

He closed his eyes, seeing an image of the cipher against his eyelids and read it, or at least looked at it, without the distraction of anything else in the flat. He was close, so close. The music helped focus him.

He realised John was listening.

If John were reading, he'd have moved at least somewhat on the bed, which would have made the old floorboards creak in response. But there had been no sound, not even the click of the light turning off.

So he was sitting still. Not moving so that he could better listen.

Sherlock stopped playing and glared at the stairs, putting his violin away hurriedly.

Damn that man.

He flopped into his chair, raking his fingers through his curls, glaring at the ceiling. When the silence provided no answers, he went back to work, hunched over the parchment, tapping the end of his pen on his lips. This should have been done by now, he told himself. Lestrade would be displeased. But Lestrade was always displeased, so that wasn't really a problem. And no one else had realised the writing had been done using a quill, which was unusual in and of itself, and a feather from a bird not normally used to make quills.

He felt like John was watching him.

Sherlock glanced up – but of course not, he was alone. John was upstairs. He heard the click of the lamp now and shifting of the floorboards as John settled down to sleep.

Good, now Sherlock could really concentrate.

But why had John thrown up when they'd found Molly?

The pen stopped against Sherlock's lips and he narrowed his eyes.

No, he'd really have to stop this.

He pushed himself to his feet, almost instinctively going for the violin again, but hesitated, because John had just fallen asleep.

Sherlock froze, his hand hovering over the case, staring at nothing.

Since when had he ever consented not to play his violin? Never. Not for anyone.

Anyone but John.

He thought of Charles.

But not really Charles himself, the look that Charles had given him the first time they'd met, almost the same look he'd seen in John's eyes, but more muted. Restrained. Uncertain.

But that was ridiculous. As far as Sherlock knew, John had no interest in men.

And why would John be interested in him? Sherlock had told him that he was married to his work and meant it – despite the fact that said work now lay abandoned and mostly forgotten on the table next to him.

Besides, no one could stand to be around him for long periods of time without being annoyed. He'd only got on with Charles so well because they hadn't actually tried to get on at all. Charles had helped him to improve the fluency of his French, but only because Charles had taken it as a personal affront that Sherlock's French had been so bad. He'd never expected anything from Charles and nor had Charles from Sherlock, so it had worked.

Sherlock had never expected anything from John, either, save for someone to pay half the rent, which wasn't really necessary. He'd actually assumed John would become exasperated and leave or at least try to avoid being caught in Sherlock's cases. After all, John had only moved in so he could live in London proper and afford it.

But he hadn't moved out.

And he hadn't avoided working with Sherlock.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. What was worse – or better? – was that Sherlock enjoyed having John around, both in the flat and on the job.

Sherlock stalked away into his bedroom and simply stood, uncertain as to what to do. He had no reason to be in there. He had work to do.

Why had John stopped moving the sugar?

It had been almost fun.

Why had he thrown up when they'd found Molly?

Somehow, these two things became linked, even though he was not certain they actually were.

Why was John behaving so strangely? Why was he being so tolerant of Sherlock? Yes, he was his friend, the closest friend Sherlock had ever had. He knew Lestrade still didn't quite believe it – some days, Sherlock did not believe it, either. But John stayed on.

Why?

It made no sense.

He stalked back out into the living room and bit down on a curse when he realised Mrs. Hudson had nicked the skull again. He needed someone to talk to. To talk at, rather. The skull was always a good person with whom to have a conversation because it could not provide advice Sherlock did not want.

"Blast," he muttered and went back into his bedroom. Still, nothing there to do.

He changed, at least he could do that. For something to do, to move, so he could be distracted by the sensation of cool air against his skin, the new fabric. People needed to pay more attention to the information their skin could pick up, but people – other people – were often thick and daft.

He went back into the living room and glared at the place where the skull should be, then at the table where his work lay.

What was wrong with him?

He thought about John, about the desire he'd seen in John's eyes, if that's what it had been, and then John acting more normal again.

Oh.

Oh, no.

John had done that for him.

Sherlock's eyes stayed focused on the work spread out on the table.

Because he was married to his work.

He'd been _right_.

Of course he'd been right.

Reading people was his job, and his passion.

He would, he realised, have to get much better at reading himself.

He recognised suddenly that he was standing precisely halfway between the table where his work lay and the stairs leading up to John's bedroom. Sherlock stood utterly still, and told himself to step toward the table.

He didn't.

This was ridiculous, unacceptable, impossible. This sort of thing didn't happen to him. This was _why_ he had his work. It helped avoid situations like this. It was why he'd had Charles. Someone he could turn to without emotional complications. It was why he'd removed himself from any other possible relationships after Charles had gone home to France, because it was so difficult to find someone who wanted a long term, exclusively physical relationship.

Not impossible, but more trouble than it was worth. Too many potential snags.

But that's not what he wanted from John. There was no connection between John and Charles in his mind. Because for Charles, he felt nothing. He never had. He'd never even wanted to.

Sherlock had moved toward the stairs without realising it.

He stopped and turned back.

_No_, he told himself.

_Why not?_ another part of his mind asked.

He was aware of the pool of light from the lamp on the table, but it was behind him, casting shadows about the otherwise darkened flat.

He reached out for the banister then pulled his hand back. Stepped onto the first step, then back down.

Sherlock slid to a crouch, back against the wall, balanced on the balls of his feet, the light in the living room to one side, the darkness of the stairwell to the other.

What if he was wrong?

He wasn't wrong. He _knew_ he wasn't wrong.

He'd never thought like this about anyone before.

He'd never _felt_ like this about anyone before.

Why John?

_Why not John?_

He had no idea what to do. Had to do something.

He pushed himself up and went halfway up the stairs before coming back down. He paced the living room, raking a hand into his hair, then went to the stairs again, going up the first three, then coming back again.

_Decide!_ he told himself.

He thought perhaps if he'd heard John shift in his sleep, it would have stopped him. But there was no sound from the room above, so it was almost like climbing the darkened stairwell to an empty room. Not actually empty, though, just still.

He paused just outside the door, listening, one hand on the doorknob, the brass cool against his skin.

He could hear John's breathing, deep and steady. He hadn't been disturbed by Sherlock's presence on the stairs, which admittedly had been kept a quiet as possible.

He could turn back.

But, as with everything else in his life, he had to know. Really know.

What if going back downstairs would have been the wrong choice?

Sherlock pushed the door open carefully.

John didn't stir.

Sherlock made his way across the room in the dark, avoiding all of the creaky floorboards by habit, even though John didn't know that Sherlock knew to do that. No need to tell him how often he'd been in John's room to look for supplies for his experiments – the doctor would only have been upset. Claimed it was an invasion of his private space or something trivial like that.

He looked at John through the darkness; sleeping on his back, his right arm thrown above his head, left arm resting on his stomach on top of the duvet. Face slightly turned away toward the window, expression relaxed. Not dreaming, sleeping deeply.

How had he not woken up when Sherlock had entered, though? Did John trust him that much? The doctor hadn't so much as moved.

Sherlock stood for another minute, just watching, no longer feeling uncertain. It was as though this moment had been set and was just waiting for him to catch up, and the whole of the future was unravelling before him, different than he'd planned or intended or even considered.

He perched on the edge of the bed, just over halfway down, his back to John, but angled so he could see the doctor easily over his shoulder.

There was another pause.

Now he was uncertain, but not about waking John up – only the how.

Finally, he steadied himself, his voice, his heart rhythm, his breathing, and asked:

"Why did you throw up?"


End file.
